


Thirty-Five

by sabinelagrande



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Backstory, Drug Abuse, Drugged Sex, M/M, possible dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles has never aged a day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty-Five

In all the years Pickles has known him, Charles has never aged a day.

Charles had him, just once, when he was young and stupid and so very, very pretty. They were in some club; it was like Tuesday at six in the afternoon or something ridiculous like this, and the whole place was empty. They were all doing coke, the only drug Pickles had ever seen Charles do; Charles did two bumps and his facial expression didn't even change. He was just as clear and sharp as ever, while Pickles was fucking bombed as usual.

He was clear-headed enough to follow Charles back to the farthest part of the VIP, far enough that it seemed like they were all alone. Charles kissed him, hard and biting, and that was the biggest fucking surprise Pickles had had in his entire life. He thought for a second it was the acid playing tricks on him, but Charles clamped one hand around his wrist and for some reason that was it, he knew it was really happening.

Charles pressed him up against the booth; Pickles can still taste the sticky leatherette, damp from the breath of his moans. He peeled off Pickles's skintight jeans and slid two long fingers inside of him, working him until he was desperate, begging with his body when his voice failed him.

Charles fucked him like he'd never been fucked before; he'd screwed around with guys, but it was nothing like this, nothing at all. Charles was a machine, driving into him over and over, his movements controlled and precise. And god help him, Pickles went to pieces, pleading and crying for more. He was terrified, absolutely scared shitless of what was happening to him, of _Charles_ , of the power he had over him. He clutched at the material under him and came, and Charles didn't stop, didn't falter for an instant. He just kept fucking him until he was hard and wanting again, and then Charles leaned down and told him to come, and he just did.

He was exhausted when it was finally over, his hair falling into his face, sweat clinging to him everywhere, sore in places he didn't even know he had. And Charles, fucking Charles, Charles had a moist towelette for him and not the slightest trace of a smile on his face.

Pickles came this close to asking for his fifty bucks.

His face was burning when he finally went to rejoin his bandmates. He knew what he looked like, he knew what he must have _smelled_ like; he didn't say a word, trying his hardest not to wince as he sat back down on his barstool. Candynose grinned at him, secretively, like he knew, like he knew _exactly_ , and Pickles's stomach churned and his heart hurt; and for the first time, he wished he wasn't high.

In all the years Pickles has known him, Charles has never aged a day.

Pickles has. He's seen his hair fall out, his flat stomach disappear, his ass grow. His liver is disintegrating and his teeth are close to ruined. He'll shrivel up and die one day, and that day is getting closer and closer.

Charles never will. Charles will be thirty-five forever.

Pickles knows.


End file.
